ikea by southwest
We spent most of yesterday enduring an Ikea odyssey, made all the more brutal by the corresponding rental of a Uhaul to schlep everything back. While waiting an hour and a half for a truck, I tried to think of other companies who have policies as insane as Uhaul’s “we don’t guarantee that the equipment you reserve will be there” policy. The best I could come up with was Southwest Airlines and their “on your marks, get set, grab a seat!” policy.
Then I decided what a great hidden camera show (tentative title: Uhaul by Southwest) it would make, alternately applying these two policies to assorted businesses and capturing people’s reactions. Imagine watching brides-to-be showing up to pick up their wedding gowns, only to find out that the bridal boutique doesn’t guarantee that the dresses will be there. Or people arriving for an NFL game and being told that their tickets only qualified them for whatever seat they could find. The assorted possibilities for riots and mayhem are endless.
Anyways, I could guide a walking tour through the Long Island Ikea, highlighting fights and meltdowns we’ve had in specific sections throughout the years. I think Ikea strategically plants hysterical infants in their stores just to hurry up their shoppers and increase the odds of irrational “let’s just buy this and get the hell out of here” purchases.
There would be no hurrying on this trip, though. This was the huge pre-baby shop, which included the purchase of a bureau to compensate for the impending hostile takeover of my closet by my unborn son. In my rough estimation, we were there for seventeen hours and bought one third of their stock. At one point, Julia, in her best soon-to-be-a-mommy voice scolded me from about twenty feet away, barking, “Stop playing your cell phone video game and come over here and help me!” to the horror of everyone within earshot.
In her defense, I become a different person the second I set foot in Ikea. It’s the only place that routinely inspires thoughts of violence in me. I’m guessing I’m not alone in these sentiments, though, judging from the aggressive cart maneuvering and personal-space violations of my fellow shoppers. This was also a trip that simply could not be put off any longer. We have two of those tall white cloth-like Ikea lamps that have spaghetti sauce stains on them from two apartments ago. And earlier this week I overheard Julia on the phone with my mom, telling her that I still had the dresser I had stolen from my landlord’s storage space in the basement of an apartment building I lived in ten years ago. Hey, I didn’t jimmy the lock – my upstairs neighbor did.
Avoiding the looks of hate from everyone behind us in line, we completed a transaction roughly equal in complexity and length to the purchase of a house and headed out to the truck. Of course it had started snowing while were inside, confirming my theory that Ikea is actually a time warp. Around this point it dawned on me what an obscene amount of lifting/carrying I would be doing over the next couple of hours. Lifting every enormous box into the truck was a sneak preview of the pain to come. We hit the McDonalds drive-thru around the corner (which, like going to Ikea, sounds like a great idea until you actually do it) and headed home.
I suppose I should mention now that the truck we rented was in rough shape. If it was a horse, it would be put down. The interior looked and smelled like it had housed a chain-smoking homeless family, the passenger-side mirror (a fairly important component of an automobile with no rear-view mirror) was about to fall off, and the shocks must have been made out of cardboard. On the drive home, one of the windshield wipers loudly broke and wedged itself into a triangle formation on the windshield with the other one. Having no choice but to keep driving and needing to see, I tuned the wipers back on and peered through the small triangle of vision I had been allotted.
When we finally pulled up at the apartment, I realized that I had fifteen minutes to get the truck back to avoid the penalty for returning it late (the whole process actually took eight hours). I then performed what could have been a World’s Strongest Man Competition event by sprinting and carrying everything from the truck to the lobby of our building in the heavy snow. The whole thing must have looked incredibly shady to anyone who glanced out the window – had I been watching, I might have called the cops.
Miraculously, I got the truck back with three minutes to spare. Noting that they had slightly underestimated the initial amount of gas in the truck, I lied and said I refilled it up to where it was to avoid an additional fee. I also opted not to mention the windshield-wiper and merely wedged it back into place. I have absolutely no qualms about screwing over Uhaul, and if they try to pull any additional charges, I’ve already written the letter of complaint in my head about the “dangerous” truck we were given.
After a calm fifteen-block walk home in the snow, I now had the joy of carrying everything from the lobby up two flights of stairs to our apartment. By the time I finished, I was drenched in sweat and doubled over. “I can’t ever do this again,” I told Julia, “it’s too much.” She replied, “Don’t worry – if our son ever says that you don’t love him enough, I’ll tell him how hard you worked today.” Thanks.
Then I decided what a great hidden camera show (tentative title: Uhaul by Southwest) it would make, alternately applying these two policies to assorted businesses and capturing people’s reactions. Imagine watching brides-to-be showing up to pick up their wedding gowns, only to find out that the bridal boutique doesn’t guarantee that the dresses will be there. Or people arriving for an NFL game and being told that their tickets only qualified them for whatever seat they could find. The assorted possibilities for riots and mayhem are endless.
Anyways, I could guide a walking tour through the Long Island Ikea, highlighting fights and meltdowns we’ve had in specific sections throughout the years. I think Ikea strategically plants hysterical infants in their stores just to hurry up their shoppers and increase the odds of irrational “let’s just buy this and get the hell out of here” purchases.
There would be no hurrying on this trip, though. This was the huge pre-baby shop, which included the purchase of a bureau to compensate for the impending hostile takeover of my closet by my unborn son. In my rough estimation, we were there for seventeen hours and bought one third of their stock. At one point, Julia, in her best soon-to-be-a-mommy voice scolded me from about twenty feet away, barking, “Stop playing your cell phone video game and come over here and help me!” to the horror of everyone within earshot.
In her defense, I become a different person the second I set foot in Ikea. It’s the only place that routinely inspires thoughts of violence in me. I’m guessing I’m not alone in these sentiments, though, judging from the aggressive cart maneuvering and personal-space violations of my fellow shoppers. This was also a trip that simply could not be put off any longer. We have two of those tall white cloth-like Ikea lamps that have spaghetti sauce stains on them from two apartments ago. And earlier this week I overheard Julia on the phone with my mom, telling her that I still had the dresser I had stolen from my landlord’s storage space in the basement of an apartment building I lived in ten years ago. Hey, I didn’t jimmy the lock – my upstairs neighbor did.
Avoiding the looks of hate from everyone behind us in line, we completed a transaction roughly equal in complexity and length to the purchase of a house and headed out to the truck. Of course it had started snowing while were inside, confirming my theory that Ikea is actually a time warp. Around this point it dawned on me what an obscene amount of lifting/carrying I would be doing over the next couple of hours. Lifting every enormous box into the truck was a sneak preview of the pain to come. We hit the McDonalds drive-thru around the corner (which, like going to Ikea, sounds like a great idea until you actually do it) and headed home.
I suppose I should mention now that the truck we rented was in rough shape. If it was a horse, it would be put down. The interior looked and smelled like it had housed a chain-smoking homeless family, the passenger-side mirror (a fairly important component of an automobile with no rear-view mirror) was about to fall off, and the shocks must have been made out of cardboard. On the drive home, one of the windshield wipers loudly broke and wedged itself into a triangle formation on the windshield with the other one. Having no choice but to keep driving and needing to see, I tuned the wipers back on and peered through the small triangle of vision I had been allotted.
When we finally pulled up at the apartment, I realized that I had fifteen minutes to get the truck back to avoid the penalty for returning it late (the whole process actually took eight hours). I then performed what could have been a World’s Strongest Man Competition event by sprinting and carrying everything from the truck to the lobby of our building in the heavy snow. The whole thing must have looked incredibly shady to anyone who glanced out the window – had I been watching, I might have called the cops.
Miraculously, I got the truck back with three minutes to spare. Noting that they had slightly underestimated the initial amount of gas in the truck, I lied and said I refilled it up to where it was to avoid an additional fee. I also opted not to mention the windshield-wiper and merely wedged it back into place. I have absolutely no qualms about screwing over Uhaul, and if they try to pull any additional charges, I’ve already written the letter of complaint in my head about the “dangerous” truck we were given.
After a calm fifteen-block walk home in the snow, I now had the joy of carrying everything from the lobby up two flights of stairs to our apartment. By the time I finished, I was drenched in sweat and doubled over. “I can’t ever do this again,” I told Julia, “it’s too much.” She replied, “Don’t worry – if our son ever says that you don’t love him enough, I’ll tell him how hard you worked today.” Thanks.
posted by Justin at 5:19 PM
11 Comments:
You are a better person than I am. After my last (3rd in total) Ikea experience I officially ended business with the good people from Sweden. Once you have your wife crying to you, in front of a broken piece of Ikea furniture, screaming "AT LEAST YOU KNOW WHERE YOUR PANTS ARE!!!!", you decide the extra money is well worth it for already put together furniture. I wish you and your allen wrench all the best!!!!
I wish I knew you had entered your nesting phase. My mom is selling her house & had an offer accepted on the co-op she wants to buy. At some point, I will be getting furniture from her house and getting rid of a dresser that was once in my nursery as a baby. I don't know if my method is worse than stealing from a storage facility, but if it wasn't for dead relatives, I'd have hardly any furniture at all.
Just think, someday you can take this stuff to the Antiques Road Show and it'll all have been worth it.
The secret that nobody tells first time parents is that you don't need that much stuff especially in the beginning. More than anything you'll just want to stock up on burp cloths and diapers... Maybe a good extra trashcan with a tight lid. Don't go overboard on the rest!
What about those handy chapped/burned fingers you get after 12 hours of building IKEA furniture with that horrible "IKEA Tool?"
Our first few months in New York were miserable for me - I pined for San Francisco every day - and perhaps the culmination of that misery was a trip to the Elizabeth, NJ IKEA. We took the bus. And of course, as soon as we pulled into the vast, vast parking lot of the store, snow began falling heavily (and this was early APRIL). The usual nerve-ravaging, relationship-threatening, sanity-obliterating IKEA experience ensued, but as I was waiting for Kris in the meatball-and-ice cream area near the exit of the store, fighting tears while waiting for him to pay for our stuff, my cell phone rang. An unfamiliar 347-number popped up. I answered, trying not to sound weepy. It was Julia. It was the first time I'd ever spoken to her. She was responding to my Craiglist inquiry about the workshop. So, as much as I resent and despise IKEA, I also have an oddly soft spot for it in my mind, because it hosted that very first conversation, and just after that, we met you guys in person, and after that, New York wasn't so miserable anymore, and now it's three years later, and we haven't moved back to California.
i like it when things are difficult for you.
Being married to a Swede who loves his Swedish food requires has required numerous trips to IKEA throughout the years. On the flip side ----- Johan also hates IKEA for all the reasons you mentioned in your blog so I figured something HAD TO BE DONE!
One day I decided that I was fed up w/all the emotional turmoil around me in IKEA so did my research and found Swedish food shop in Norwalk, CT (and they ship non-refrigerated items). Now the IKEA problem is solved! I will NEVER go there for the rest of my life if I can help it! I hope you and Julia find a solution to your IKEA problem as well some day!
Jean
i had my first panic attack in IKEA; screaming, crying, screaming, crying, screaming, crying. "how big is the average window?" my roommate was laughing. i watned to kill her. i wanted to kill everyone in the place. much like me, IKEA is not for everyone. it is certainly not for me.
I love the outpouring of Ikea emotion.
Wow, that sounds like an experience that could make the toughest of men cry.
I haven't had the emotional experiences of some who have replied. However, it can be rage-inducing when you spend two hours cruising through the showroom only to find that the ONE piece you needed was either out-of-stock or only one of the boxes needed was there...and it was damaged...
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